


Immovable Objects Meeting Unstoppable Forces

by SharpestScalpel



Category: Sherlock (TV), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Modern AU, Mycroft Runs the World, What Was I Thinking?, tea fixes everything, why am I writing this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier and his newly recruited cohort Erik Lensherr work for MI-6; in fact, Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr work for Mycroft Holmes.</p><p>An injury takes Erik to Baker Street, to the due and dutiful care of one John Watson.</p><p>And then what happens?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, y'all. This is a work in progress that will take shape in small bits and pieces. I think it's mostly for my amusement.
> 
> There's bound to be some porn.
> 
> In the meantime, let's pretend Charles remained at Oxford, and did not return to the States. Moira belongs to MI-6, rather than the CIA. Mutant recruiting will continue, and there might even be a confrontation with Shaw. But it shall all be handled as it comes.
> 
> And there will always be tea.

He had picked up a bit of the deduction habit from Sherlock; the tortured sound of his flatmate's violin from up the stairs shouted plainly that Mycroft was in attendance. It was no surprise then to find Mycroft seated in John's own armchair and Sherlock swanning about the living room.

The surprise was that Mycroft was not alone.

The short man on the right end of the sofa was watching Sherlock with fascination. The lean man on the left end of the sofa made John wish he had his gun on him.

One day, John supposed, he would walk in and find the Queen herself was part of Sherlock's local solar system. And when that day came, John was resolved, he would offer her tea. He could hardly do any less for Mycroft and his... Whatever they were. ”Shall I just make some tea then?”

Mycroft nodded like it was every day he invaded Baker Street with strangers in tow but the short one, who barely looked old enough to have a job much less to be one of Mycroft's associates, lit up and bounced to his feet. ”Oh, that would be perfection!” His enthusiasm reminded John of small children and puppies. And he followed John into the kitchen. ”I would have done, myself - but one hates to...” He trailed off, flapped a hand in the direction of the living room.

Actually, John knew quite what he meant by that.

John moved to reach for a fifth mug but the stranger shook his head. “Oh, he won’t drink anything.” The man shrugged, a frustrated gesture, the ragged fabric of his t-shirt pulled taut across surprisingly solid muscle. “It was all I could do to get him here in the first place, to see you.”

Easy to underestimate this one - John was rather familiar with that phenomenon. He wouldn't make the same mistake.

And there was to be no peaceful ritual of tea making, it seemed. John sighed – but curiosity won out. He'd spent too much time with Sherlock to escape it. “To see me? Your friend in need of a doctor then?” That wasn’t the only reason Mycroft brought people to see him, but it was the most common. At least he'd slacked off on bringing people round to try to talk John into new jobs out in the country. Mycroft did like to test a man's loyalty.

He got a nod in return, and a bonus pensive look. "I'm afraid I don't know the extent of his injuries. He doesn't like doctors, you see."

***

Twenty minutes later, John had an exquisite understanding of just how large an understatement that was.

His patient's name was Erik Lensherr, that detail supplied by his friend Charles - Charles Xavier had been easily forthcoming with information. Mycroft had almost had a facial expression when Charles had launched into babble about the precise manner of Erik's injury. Even Sherlock had sat up at that, had cocked his head to one side and _listened_ when Charles said they had been practicing flying.

Erik had cracked three ribs, badly enough that John wanted x-rays he didn't think he was going to get. He'd also held himself completely still, despite the pain John knew he had to be in, refusing to make eye contact or to completely remove his nondescript button-up shirt. His flesh had still quivered under John's assessing hand - a restrained flinch away. He had shared no information about his medical history. And even with his shirt on, John had seen and felt a multiplicity of scars.

It was true that John was not as observant as Sherlock - that could be said with confidence about every other person on the planet. But John knew what he saw when he saw it, and he thought his first instinct had been a correct one. This Erik was a soldier of some sort, one who'd probably been used hard. German by his accent but there was an edge to him, a specific sharpness around his eyes that John had seen before, in Afghanistan. And it made sense with Mycroft's involvement.

John knew when to keep himself to himself and mind his own business. The same could not be said for Sherlock.

"Really, Mycroft. I thought you were above getting your hands dirty with actual spies." The violin bow dangled from Sherlock's elegant fingers. "Playing nursemaid now, when you break your borrowed toys?"

***

Erik had tensed, ready to drag Charles bodily from the small flat, until Charles's voice sounded in his head. He'd had no measure of calm anyway - too exposed, too vulnerable, too dependent on Mycroft's damnable good will, contacts, and financing. Working with official organizations was always a mistake. Erik would know all about that, after all.

 _He didn't mean it like that, my friend._

The doctor - John Watson, he'd said his name was - had shifted back, put a few inches of breathing room between them. It was enough to keep Erik sitting; he appreciated the gesture even as he did not trust... well, anyone in the room other than Charles.

"Sherlock." The warning note in the doctor's voice was clear as a bell. The blond was nearly as short as Charles, built for fading into the background. A study in the ordinary. He didn't hold himself like an ordinary man, though. Dr. Watson had steady, capable hands, and there'd been no surprise on his face when he'd run fingers over some of Erik's worst scars. Even the man's insistence on a proper cup of tea before dealing with the strangers in his flat spoke of his experience.

A soldier.

But Erik was used to sitting with dangerous men.

The other man, Sherlock - twice as spoiled as Charles from the look of his blue silk dressing gown - grumbled but subsided back into his cushions. Erik had avoided eye contact, had needed to focus on controlling the pain of his broken ribs. He'd told Charles they'd heal on their own, but Watson was leaning in again, holding up a hand so Erik could see his intention to touch again.

"You'll need pain management. Just don't compress the area." The doctor looked at Mycroft, who produced a prescription pad from his pocket and passed it over. Erik watched: Watson only shook his head, unsurprised, and took the pad. "Any allergies I should know about?"

***

Charles laughed, a little forced sounding to his own ear but adequate enough for purposes of social lubrication. "Oh, I'm the one with the allergies to things. Erik's got a system like cast iron."

Not that Erik was likely to take the medicine anyway, not unless Charles raised a fuss (which he would). Charles could feel rather keenly the grey wall of Erik's pain, threatening to collapse. Erik propped it up with self-control and iron will but it had to crumble at some point.

He'd peeked at the other minds in the room, of course. Mycroft was a ledger, balanced and locked down tight. Every thought kept to its own compartment, quite fascinating in its own right as a mental construct, really. John Watson, the doctor, had a bit more to say in the supposed privacy of his thoughts than he did out loud. Though, interestingly, Sherlock seemed to know the vast majority of what John was thinking. Charles poked a touch, as lightly as he could. No hint of telepathy there. The doctor and the detective (that was how he thought of himself) spoke in glances and half-formed facial expressions. It was actually quite lovely; Charles suppressed a small pang of jealousy. He and Erik... they were too new for such intimacy of mind and thought.

No hint of true mutation in Sherlock, but his mind... If Mycroft was a ledger, Sherlock was an encyclopedia of information. A well-organized wiki maintained with ruthless efficiency. And a pair of eyes constantly bent on observation. Charles shuddered. Sherlock's mind was Kandinsky's On White II - it made him nervous, fraught with the tension of interaction and relation without human context.

Erik's attention was all on Charles. _I'm all right - just a chill._ There was so little of the childlike in Erik, but Charles still felt compelled to offer some degree of comfort, the way he had done for Raven when she was a slip of a girl. _We should be done here soon, and you'll take some medicine, and you'll feel better, love._ But the rest of his mind focused, dove deeper.

There were no emotions on the surface of Sherlock's mind. It was all slotted together, organized and in motion. But the lack... Charles kept his touch light but peeled back the layers of really impressive fortifications. Sherlock buried himself in his work, kept his feelings as distant as possible. It really was fascinating.

Sherlock's head came up. Oh. _Oh._ How delightfully unexpected.

***

Details first.

Mycroft:  
wet shoes  
tense chin  
faint aroma of sweat  
unusual actions (brought strangers to flat; did not bait John with job in country)

Charles Xavier:  
family name, minor nobility  
comfortable with wealth (designer jeans; worn t-shirt; bespoke shoes with a great deal of wear)  
Oxford education (dreadful vowels)  
cultivates look of youth (conscious strategy of manipulation; comfortable with influencing others)

Erik Lensherr:  
whipcord thin (lean muscle; dry skin) (recent starvation? inconclusive)  
tense despite John's gentleness  
regard for Xavier as source of approval, guidance  
modesty (refused to remove shirt; visible extensive scarring when shirt was opened)

Conclusion: X spent too long in America; L is the muscle of the partnership; Lovers? Probably.

More data required.

When Sherlock had been a small boy, his mummy had taken him to see a doctor. The doctor had tested him extensively, asked him if he could hear other people's thoughts. Not so blatantly, of course. The doctor had been quite a bit more subtle about it than all that - and Sherlock had only been 5 years old at the time. He lacked the experience to see through all of the deceptions adults perpetrated for their own good.

Even so, the results had been negative; Sherlock did not read minds.

But simply because Sherlock could not do such a thing did not mean no one else could - particularly if there were doctors standing by to investigate any possible occurrences of such a talent. Somewhere, it stood to reason, there were people who could do this thing.

Sherlock eyed the men that his brother had brought into his flat and considered.

The injured one, he had the look of a soldier but more than that. He was careful, assessing. He did not trust John, even though John had made no move without Lensherr's permission. His hands were steady and he did not move unless there was a reason - no fidgeting or mindless boredom. It spoke of hard-earned patience, hunting and waiting.

Lensherr had not made eye contact but even so... Sherlock suspected Lensherr did not often miss his prey.

The other man was a bold contrast. Xavier was overly friendly, forthcoming. He had the balanced-on-his-toes posture of a man of quick energy, a person in the habit of responding and reacting with speed and precision. There was some kind of communication between him and Lensherr - they traded significant glances but no words.

Sherlock watched as, yet again, Xavier put his hand to his temple. Sherlock watched as, yet again, Lensherr looked over at him and eased as much as was probably possible given his injury and the vulnerable situation.

Xavier put his hand to his temple again. He was looking at Sherlock...

Sherlock sat up.

Improbability did not equal impossibility. And if such a thing were possible, if such a person existed, Mycroft would be the first to employ that person in his banal governmental machinations.

An experiment:

The manor grounds, a tree (bark slippery from the rain, Sherlock's child fingers not strong enough to grasp and hold), a fall (onto dry packed earth), the jut of smooth white bone amidst hot red blood

Xavier responded - his lips parted (a contained gasp); his eyes pinched at the corners (pain reflex)

Lensherr responded - twisted at the waist (sudden pain response) over John's objection and restraining hands; gazed intently and inquired if Xavier was all right

Conclusion: hypothesis plausible

The afternoon had been _dull_ with John at work and a lull between cases. Sherlock met Xavier's blue gaze and nodded. Oh, yes, things were looking up.


	2. Chapter 2

The pain had been crystalline in its clarity, a perfectly realized recollection of trauma that, under other circumstances, might have had Charles clutching at his own wrist in concern. However, in this circumstance, he allowed himself only an inhalation, a silent gasp of pain - it was dangerous to give too much away.

And it was dangerous to admit to feeling anything at all with Erik on such an edge. Despite his injuries, Erik twisted away from the doctor's hands, his own pain evident from his surface thoughts (Charles skimmed them constantly, unable to truly keep away but unwilling to delve deeper without invitation) - but also his concern and protective reflexes. Nothing could happen to Charles - it was as though Erik were shouting it in Charles's ear.

Charles stood, one hand out. "I'm fine, my friend."

Erik was an ocean, a deep-dredged trench of buried trauma and first-hand experience with terrible things. And all of it was held down, under intense pressure, by the momentum of Erik's will. Charles was afraid that one day, perhaps one day soon, Erik would tire of their partnership, would return to his solo revenge. That would be an awful day for them both.

For now, though, Erik was determined to sacrifice his own well-being for Charles's safety. He was too on edge. They needed allies - and Mycroft remained convinced, in word and thought, that these men could be those allies.

"He hurt you somehow." Erik was on his feet now, gestured at Sherlock.

 _Just a memory - I shouldn't have been poking around in the first place._ Fascinating to think that Sherlock had figured out what Charles was with no hint of telepathy himself.

Erik wavered, his exhaustion finally writ plainly on his face, in the slump of his shoulders. "Charles?"

John was on his feet as well, open hands displayed. "You're going to aggravate your injury moving about like that." He had a soft voice. Erik flinched away from it and Charles gave up his show of propriety. He stepped closer, settled his hands against the skin of Erik's back, under his open shirt. "Please, sit." He whispered it against the fabric of Erik's sleeve, against Erik's tight shoulder.

It was unfair, Charles thought, to play on Erik's weakness for the tactile - the man had been too deprived of gentle touches. But it was also the most effective way to get Erik seated again, resting as he should be. Charles stayed close despite Erik's surprise at the public display of affection. "You mentioned a prescription?"

It did not escape Charles's notice that Mycroft and Sherlock both had not moved at all.

***

That was... well. John couldn't argue with Charles's method - Erik did indeed sit back down, which was all for the best. And he stayed close enough that John was rather sure the injured man wouldn't be able to stand again, at least not without bowling his friend over. Friend. Lover. It was all fine, of course. None of his business, really.

It was simply that he and Sherlock rarely touched in public, and never in such an affectionate fashion. And they knew so few other couples.

John looked away, a tinge of red blushing the tips of his ears.

But he still had a patient. "Sherlock, please give us a few moments."


End file.
